72 Hours
by Appreciates Fine Labrats
Summary: A horrific crime is committed when Greg is kidnapped, and the team will have to relive awful memories. One-shot.


**Since I'm taking forever to type up my other fics, I came up with this little...weird thing. So as a way to procrastinate from schoolwork, I wrote it up. More late night lying in bed ideas...**

**Don't own anything, of course.**

It's been 72 hours since the news swept through the lab like a hurricane. 72 hellish hours of waiting, praying, hoping and frantic scurrying to analyze what little evidence they could find. Yet always in the back of their minds was the ticking clock that warned them of how dire the situation was. 24 hours, and it was looking bad. 36 hours, looking even worse. And after those first few days they had finally conceded defeat to sleep, though mostly they'd lain awake thinking of him. Reliving the moments. Because they could all remember the last time anyone had seen him, before he became just another statistic, just another victim.

At the end of shift, cases closed, they gathered in the break room. An open box lay on the table, inviting them to look inside. Greg was first, and whatever lay inside spread a huge grin over his face.

"For us?" he laughed, looking up at Catherine who'd just entered. She nodded, smiling too as he pulled out a freshly dusted doughnut and stuffed it into his mouth.

"I thought you all might like something small as a thanks for your hard work," she said. They clustered around the box like children, thanking her through mouthfuls of sweet frosting. It was the perfect way to unwind after a long day. And how they laughed at Greg. A great white dollop of frosting sugar hung precariously on his nose, and he laughed while in the process of swiping his cheeks with more of the same, so that he looked like a particularly warlike powder-puff. They laughed too while he played in his new disguise, and even Grissom had to work particularly hard to hide his smile at the young man's antics.

All too soon it was over, for they needed their sleep and day shift was beginning to arrive. Greg walked out with the rest of them, sugar still floating off his nose and an irrepressible smile on his face at some private joke.

That was the last. The last glimpse of his artfully moussed hair and cheerful smile, opening his car door and driving out of the lot. Days later, after the frantic calls (maybe he'd taken an impromptu vacation? No, of course not) and pleas to the public to keep a lookout, they still hadn't come any closer to finding him.

Finally a glimmer of hope materialized, though had they known what it entailed they'd have thought twice about accepting it. Just at the chiming of the 72nd hour a phone call broke through their reverie, a phantom voice causing desperate hope to blossom in their hearts, and they ran as one to whatever folly lay at the end of the line. A woman's voice.

Just the team.

But what..?

Drive to an abandoned part of town and get out.

Not even to bring anything?

No, of course nothing is necessary. Your friend back, that's all.

What's the catch?

But the phantom voice disappears, a dial tone signaling the end of their conversation.

And what can they do? The team stares at one another. It's not natural, not right. But they have no choice. If there's a chance, just any chance, that they could get Greg back, aren't they willing to take it? As one they agree, for he'd do the same, and more, for any of them.

Driving through abandoned streets they are silent. Paramedics are on speed dial, but what horrors can they fathom at the end of this trip? Cynical thoughts flicker on repeat through their heads, each one hoping their friend is safe and that this isn't a sick joke, even as the reality of life shouts from the back of their minds.

And finally they arrive. It truly is a shabby area. Overturned garbage bins line the cracked street and they feel unfriendly stares eyeing them from behind twitching curtains. Guns drawn, they pile out into the middle of the street. Warrick and Nick form the flanks, with Catherine and Sara standing small in the centre. Grissom, unusually calm, stands in direct defiance of the entire neighbourhood in their middle. If only pure will could overcome the situation, could battle the uneasy fear they're all feeling. They can agree that this was a bad idea, but their love for Greg compels them onward.

Suddenly there's a change in the darkness to the side. A figure stumbles out into the street and the light of a flickering streetlamp illuminates a thin body, bent by some great weight. It straightens, and their hearts jump, for it is unmistakably Greg. Their Greg, safe and sound. He pauses in the very middle of the lane -- disoriented by the lights, maybe. They step forward, shouts on their lips and momentarily forgetting the danger. Greg stares at them, a dazed look on his face and unable to react quickly.

But they recoil as it becomes clear that something is very wrong. He's wet; clothes dripping with a strange liquid and clinging to his gaunt frame, accentuating his sharp angles and deep bruises. He stumbles over an invisible object and Nick can feel Catherine twitch, her hands coming up almost as if to catch him in her arms. But none of them can make that crucial first step, for the moment is just too surreal. The streetlight illuminates his face, and the damage is all too evident even from where they stand.

Nick is the first to break the spell, stepping forward and ready to tell Greg that it's all right; that the nightmare is over. But on Greg's face is a look, and they all know it's far from over, at least not for him. He turns to meet them, frail body buffeted by the menacing street around him. There are scars, frightening reminders of the abuse he's endured, but the worst hurt is in his eyes. He meets Nick's gaze and the world comes crashing down around them; the anguish hidden by the dark lashes is clear as day to Nick, and all he wants is to tell Greg that everything will be fine from now on.

But Greg seems to know something they don't, for his face is now apologetic, and then they see it. The briefest flash of light, a blazing streak of flame, and the moment is frozen in place. All eyes are now trained on the object as it makes it's dreadful descent. The final arbiter, and Greg looks almost ready for it. With a dreadful finality the bottle hits him, a heart-wrenching crash following in delay. He straightens at the impact, pain seeming to radiate from his body. The watchers shudder as one, shock rippling through them like a wave.

Screams rent the air as his clothes instantly catch fire, and now they know what that liquid was. The horrific moment is forever etched in their minds, to be replayed only in the darkest of nights. His tears disintegrate instantly in the searing heat as great tongues of flame lick his face. Fire caresses his body and yet keeps him frozen in place, the intensity of its light keeping the stunned spectators at bay.

In the first few seconds Greg had felt nothing, then a pain like none he'd ever experienced ricocheted through his senses and exploded in his mind. He can't see anything around him, just white light. It is worse, so much worse than the lab explosion, but that's all he can think about -- that flash of light, the energy of the blast, the sharp pricks of glass hitting his face. As with then, he can hardly make a sound. He wants to scream so badly, to rend his hair at the excruciating pain; it's climbing into his mouth now, filling his nostrils with the acrid smell of burning flesh -- his flesh, burning to cinders. And yet he can only emit a tortured groan, which seems to be enough to break his stasis. He keels forward, the cry he's been holding bursting forth into the night air.

They all hear it; an unbearable cry of torment and pain tearing at their hearts, and they see him topple forward as if in slow motion. Only seconds have passed, and yet even those seconds are crucial, and they seem to realize this altogether, for they lunge toward Greg's burning form, swatting at the flames with anything they can grasp at. Sirens ring through the air -- someone had the presence of mind to call for the police, and no one can guess who -- but they have eyes and ears only for Greg. And yet he makes no noise beyond that initial cry.

Lying on the still scorching concrete, ash clouding his eyes and clothing still smoking in embers, Catherine sobbing into his shoulders, he gives no indication of still being aware. Dust and soot is clogging her nostrils but Catherine cares only for the frail body she holds tightly, as if by holding him ever tighter she can push away the reality of what just happened.

Nick falls to his knees beside Greg's body, throwing aside the jacket he'd been using to smother the flames. It's in charred tatters, useless just like Nick feels. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he catches a hold of Greg's hand; it's nearly black, smoldering and useless. It feels disgusting in his hand, limp and so unlike Greg -- it was wrong. This was so wrong. This shouldn't have happened to Greg, not to Greg of all people.

Pushed roughly out of the way by paramedics, Nick blinks in shock as sound returns to him in full force. Greg's hand slips out of his and he watches it fall to the ground, forgotten in the rush of people around the body. Nick stumbles back, half falling into someone who turns out to be Sara. They hold each other as if their lives depend on it, and then the whole team is there, crying and clutching each other tightly. Except for one, and he'll never be the same. Nick lifts his head to the sky, tears openly falling from his eyes. Maybe it's a mirage, but he can almost smell sugar in the air. And still the 72nd hour ticks obliviously into history.


End file.
